Breaking the Cycle: How Israel's Prison Rehabilitation Programs Turn Lives Around

Every time Eli (a pseudonym, in his 50s) walked out of prison, he knew it was only temporary. Sometimes only two months passed before he returned, and at best he lasted a year. After a total of 19 prison terms, he says, prison felt like home.

Eli was born and raised in a moshav in the south, in a family of ten children. By the time he was 13, his older brothers were already involved in local crime, and he followed in their footsteps. "At 13 I was already smoking drugs," he says. "Not cannabis or light drugs, I started straight with heroin."

At school, he recalls, his family name preceded him, and mothers of his classmates preferred that their children not play with him. "I was labeled. I said: 'If that's how it is, then fine, let's go all the way.'"

From there, the path continued for decades: drugs, offenses, prison sentences, and releases, over and over again. "At first I wanted to be a gangster. I told the judge: 'Prison no longer deters me.' I also never thought I would ever change," he recalls, "until I reached rehabilitation at the Jerusalem Hostel."

Every year, about 6,000 prisoners are released from Israeli prisons, but only about 4,000 of them meet with representatives of the Israel Prisoner Rehabilitation Authority (PRAL) ahead of their release. "The rest are not interested, and they are not obligated to meet us," explains the authority's director-general, Moshe Ron Shukron.

The Economics of Rehabilitation

Interest alone is not an entry ticket. Applicants undergo rigorous evaluation tests for suitability and motivation, and in the end, only about 2,000 prisoners a year are found suitable for a rehabilitation program. The program replaces the final third of the prison sentence, upon the recommendation of the authority and the approval of the parole board.

"There are many prisoners who say 'give me a third [remission], I'll do this and that,' and all they want is to get out of prison and continue as before," Shukron says. "We know how to spot that."

The authority operates nine hostels, alongside community treatment frameworks, day centers, employment programs, and supervision. "From the latest measurements we took, in the absence of treatment and support, 40% of prisoners return to prison," Shukron says. "When they come to us, the recidivism rate drops to 20%."

Recidivism, or repeat offending, is a pattern where a released offender returns to committing criminal offenses. "It is a net profit for the prisoner, his family, society, and his future victims."

This gap also comes with a price tag. The annual cost of maintaining a prisoner in Israel approaches 350,000 shekels. "Prison is a very expensive business," Shukron says. "It's food, it's security, it's walls, it's guards."

The authority's most expensive treatment, within a residential framework, costs about 80,000 shekels a year, and community treatment about 40,000. "Every shekel the state invests in prisoner rehabilitation saves it four shekels in the long run. If I were a stock market person and there was a PRAL stock, I would invest in it."

Breaking the Intergenerational Cycle

Kobi (a pseudonym, in his 50s) entered prison in his 20s following domestic violence against his partner. During his imprisonment, he entered another relationship, and a son was born. "Today he is already a teenager," he says, and for the first time in an interview full of guilt, his eyes well up with tears.

"The thing that scared me the most about being a father was that my son would turn out like me, that he would be a violent man," he admits. When people ask him how he accepts the decisions his son makes as a teenager, he replies: "I used to look in the mirror every day and see a monster. As long as he doesn't follow in my footsteps, let him do and be whatever is good for him. I will accept everything."

But at the beginning of the road, Kobi was far from being a present father. He and the child's mother separated, and from inside prison he barely saw his son. When he finished his prison term, he entered the "Maftehot" hostel of the rehabilitation authority, a framework for men convicted of domestic violence.

"Unlike prison, here they didn't let me evade things," he says. "I identified that I was producing for my son the exact same life I had: an absent father and an unstable mother. Today I am working on stopping this intergenerational transmission. I want a different life for him than mine."

"The released prisoners are sure they pulled off a scam, that they are going to spend time here just like they did in prison," says Hila Levy, director of the "Maftehot" multidisciplinary center for treating domestic violence, with a smile.

But the days, she elaborates, "are busy and long. They must wake up every morning, make the bed, go out to a job they find for themselves, cook, clean, and undergo deep and emotional therapy in groups." In the groups, they learn to identify violent thoughts and take responsibility. "Anyone who fights the framework and is not willing to go through a process will also return to prison."

The Hostel That Changed the Course

Eli, too, who no longer believed he could live otherwise, underwent a fundamental change. "In prison, the Israel Prisoner Rehabilitation Authority was my biggest enemy," he says. "The rumor about the Jerusalem Hostel and how hard it is spread strongly. I said: 'I'm not going there.'"

But the authority conditioned his rehabilitation on arriving at the hostel he feared most. "Today I know how to say that this is where my life began. My whole perspective changed."

"I encountered people who told me, 'Why are you treating prisoners? Let them stay in prison all their lives,'" Shukron says. "But a prisoner is not just a prisoner. A prisoner is his wife, his children, his living environment, his future victims. He is a working, contributing citizen to the state."